


Turn This Thing Around

by thisonegoes



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Childhood Friends, Fluff, M/M, School Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-09
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-18 18:15:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1437898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisonegoes/pseuds/thisonegoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>High school is high school, it's terrible, and it should stay in the past. No one needs a reminder of what they were for the four years after puberty, Zayn thinks. But then again, they'll all be sorry when they see him now. Isn't that what reunions were designed for? To throw your new and improved life in the faces of everyone who did you wrong as a snot-nosed teenager?</p><p>High school reunion AU where Zayn sees Harry Styles again, the only kid who was nice to him in high school, after ten years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> At a certain point, I encourage everyone to click the link to the YouTube video for a special song, to listen along as you read. You'll know it when you see it, promise.
> 
> :)

Honestly, the whole thing is pretty stupid, if you ask Zayn Malik. He'd yell it out into the universe if you'd let him, to say how ridiculous the whole idea is. They're all adults now, adults who have jobs and mortgages, kids and families, real problems, real shit going on. It's not like the words they wrote in each others' yearbooks were actually true, the _keep in touches_ and the _we'll see each other all the times._ They (for the most part, hopefully) all grew up and moved on. High school is high school, it's terrible, it should stay in the past. No one needs a reminder of what they were for the four years after puberty. Yearbook quotes be damned, you know?  
  
Zayn can't help but chuckle at the thought, as he thinks about the yearbook at his mom's house, the yearbook she insisted on keeping, with its empty pages and exactly zero signatures.  
  
It's a stupid thought to have at the moment, now that he's buttoning up his shirt in his hotel room, his senior yearbook. He glances in the mirror, assessing his hair yet again, and thinks about his blank yearbook and how sorry they'll all be when they see him now. It's stupid and childish to think about, but fuck, isn't that what reunions were designed for? To throw your new and improved life in the faces of everyone who did you wrong as a snot-nosed teenager?  
  
Yes, Zayn nods to himself in the mirror, tugging at his sleeves, this whole thing is very stupid. It's ridiculous to care about what your graduating class think of you, it's stupid he flew in for this, booked a hotel room for it, put any care into it at all, when the entire thing was pointless.  
  
And yet.  
  
Zayn Malik decides, as he sprays on his favorite cologne, the expensive stuff, with one last look in the mirror, that yes, it's stupid and childish to be doing this, to care at all. But if there's one upside to his chosen career, the life he's set out for himself, it's surely this: smiling at each and every person who made his life miserable for four years, promising them the concert tickets they'll inevitably ask for, autograph every piece of paper handed to him.  
  
Because his yearbook might be empty, every blank page a reminder of the life he didn't have as a young kid, and yes, it might be sitting on an almost empty shelf in a room he's never slept in. But Zayn has filled pages upon pages of notebooks since, with his words, his thoughts, his dreams, and he has people asking him to sign things every single day.  
  
He might have a blank yearbook, but he has pages of words now, words that set him on fire, words fans have tattooed on their bodies to give them hope.  
  
So Zayn smiles as he makes his way down the elevator, because even if he's walking into this thing alone, he's walking into it as the best version of himself, the version they've all heard about. He's walking into this ten year reunion not as Zayn Malik, loner and loser Army brat with no friends, but as Zayn Malik, singer/songwriter with so many people in his phone, he doesn't remember who half of them are.  
  
They'll see.

  
  
***

  
He'd never admit it out loud to a soul, but Zayn purposefully asked the rental car company ahead of time for the most expensive and fast car they had. Which, for Lowry, Michigan, he was surprised to see, was a pretty legit black Porsche.  
  
So Zayn makes his way to the high school, the place he vowed he'd never return to once he had a graduation cap and a crumpled diploma in his hand that last day in May ten years ago. The sun is already starting to set around him, sending shadows across the buildings and houses he knows all too well. It was unfortunate that the longest place they ever lived, after moving around his entire childhood for his dad's job, turned out to be the four years they spent in this shitty town. Zayn very nearly rolls his eyes as he gets closer to East Lowry High School, as the yard decorations he pass become more and more blue, as the Trojan symbol barrels at him from every corner.  
  
Zayn has to remind himself this version of East Lowry is not the version he knew ten years ago, as the scrawny kid with "rebellious ink" on his arms, in the baggy jeans and the hunched shoulders. He's not that kid anymore, he hasn't been that kid in a long time.  
  
He grips the steering wheel tighter, remembering those days, remembering Jason. Because things might have been easier had Jason not died.  
  
Zayn won't let himself forget it, the day he found out his best and only friend died from a heart defect. He'll never forget his mom's face as she knocked on his door, face empty of emotion, as she sat him down on his bed and told him Jason's parents woke up, but Jason didn't. He died in his sleep, forever sixteen. He died with a pile of unfinished homework on his desk and a bottle of vodka hidden in his closet. He died and left Zayn alone.  
  
Zayn's first few years at school could've been worse, because he spent them in the music room with Jason, practicing and singing until the tips of their fingers bled and their voices went hoarse. They practiced and wrote lyrics, got their first tattoos together, sneaked out to play their shitty secondhand guitars in the park on Thursday nights. But after Jason was gone, Zayn truly knew what it felt like to be alone. He got Jason's name tattooed on his forearm, next to the crossed fingers, and walked the halls of East Lowry that last year like a ghost.  
  
If Tucker Mallory hadn't of been there to occasionally remind people that Zayn existed, by way of knocking shit out of his hands, by laughing that one time he tripped in the locker room, by grabbing at a lyrics page Zayn was working on and reading it to their English class, Zayn probably could've buried himself alive on the football field and no one would've noticed.  
  
If Harry Styles hadn't of been there to occasionally remind Zayn that his heart was, in fact, still beating his chest, by smiling at him once in chemistry when Zayn got particularly frustrated over the work, by shoving Tucker that day in the locker room, by handing Zayn his lyrics back, Zayn probably could've shriveled up in his room, convinced he'd never feel a thing for a human being for the rest of his life.  
  
Zayn pulls into the parking lot and sees the blue and white balloons along the walkway leading into the gym, sees the table set up just inside the double doors with name tags and raffle tickets, sees Julianne McCormick and Kate Stephensen and their fake tits and fake smiles. He's revolted, shaking his head yet again, telling himself how stupid this whole thing is.  
  
He also tells himself to get his shit together, because the whole point of flying in for this, alone, friendless, was to at least walk in with his head held high. So he does just that. He swiftly gets out of the car and makes his way to the doors, one hand in his pocket.  
  
Zayn throws on a smirk, the smirk his publicist told him takes his face from shy and reserved to smoldering and intense. And as he walks through the double doors, he feels it, that same energy that surrounds him when he walks into an industry function where everyone wants to get in his line of sight, for a chance to talk to him.  
  
"Zayn Malik!" he hears to his right, as his head is bent over the table with name tags.  
  
He glances up and Julianne McCormick bounces over, boobs practically smacking her in the face, long blonde hair flying around her. She pulls him in for a hug, a hug he smiles through politely.  
  
"Julianne," he says, nodding, glancing at her name tag. He notes she's now Julianne McCormick Kent. He almost laughs, realizing she married Mitch Kent after all, her high school sweetheart.  
  
"We were so excited to see your RSVP for the reunion! And you hardly need a name tag, of course. But it's tradition," she laughs, eyes rolling, as she sticks the name tag to his chest.  
  
"Tradition. Fine by me," he smiles, the infamous smile his manager swears got him into every club the first two years of his career, behind every mic for every rowdy crowd.  
  
"This is so exciting! We weren't close in high school, it's such a shame. But I can't wait to hear all about your big career, how LA has been! We loved your song, the one on the radio a few years ago. It was just so good," she says, hands on her hips, still smiling.  
  
"Thank you, I appreciate that. It's one of my favorites," he says quietly, letting his face and stance do all the work. Zayn isn't the shy awkward kid from high school anymore, but he doesn't think he'll ever be the man with a hundred sentences flying out of his mouth when only two will do.  
  
"Maybe you'll perform it for us later!"  
  
Zayn can't say he didn't expect this. He assumed he'd be roped into singing something, or at the very least, pulled on stage during a speech, to show how accomplished someone from their class ended up. But he didn't bring his guitar, didn't plan anything ahead of time, so he just shrugs as she grabs his arm and tells him to head into the gym.  
  
He makes his way down the hall slowly, looking at the various boards set up with all his old classmates' photos. He walks his way around them, moving between them, touching a few of the photos of friends he didn't have, the experiences he only knew from the outside looking in. He never went to prom, or homecoming, didn't participate in any bake sales or car washes. If he looked hard, really hard, maybe he'd spot himself in the background of one of them, maybe someone snapped a photo of the music room once, maybe he's there, maybe he's with Jason, frozen at sixteen somewhere.  
  
But he doesn't look hard, because all he can see is Harry Styles.  
  
Harry smiles at him from so many of the pictures, he can't keep track. Harry on stage for _Grease_ and _Fiddler on the Roof,_ at their Battle of the Bands with his shitty band of "musicians," yelling into a microphone, on stage winning awards. He's grinning in all of them, every single one, all rosy cheeks and floppy hair, arm around his best friend Niall Horan in about half. Harry grew into his body by senior year, lengthened somewhat, and it was what Zayn liked most about him, when he allowed himself glances here and there, Harry's broad back and shoulders. He vaguely wonders, yet again, if Harry will be here.  
  
Harry was so popular, so loved, by everyone in their school, even among the faculty. His laugh was infectious, could carry down the halls like a song, could wake Zayn up from the naps he took under the bleachers in the gym, when Harry made his way between classes. He was intelligent, fun to be around, had a hand in almost every club offered. He was even on the debate team. He could stand in front of a room full of strangers and yell until he was blue in the face, about random topics Zayn had never even though of, and he almost always won.  
  
If Zayn was the silent person in their class, Harry was the one who could never shut up.  
  
Harry was also the one to kiss Zayn so hard, so passionately, at the party the night before graduation, Zayn still thinks about it when he needs to put a smile on his face.  
  
Zayn starts to walk towards the gym, like Julianne told him to, when one last picture catches his eye. It's a simple one, a picture someone must've taken as an after thought, maybe to finish out an old roll of film from one of the shitty school cameras. It's simply of Harry, sitting on the steps outside the cafeteria, alone, smiling at the camera in his stupid white polo, baggy jeans, and high top yellow Chuck Taylors. He's smiling at the camera, bright, effervescent, like the world is at his fingertips.  
  
It makes Zayn smile, seeing Harry like that, the Harry he viewed from afar for years. That's the Harry he thinks of when he performs sometimes, the Harry that floats in front of his eyes when he can't stare too hard at the faces beneath him.  
  
Harry, smiling, in those stupid yellow Chucks.

  
  
***

  
It starts about as well as Zayn expected, the reunion, as people start to trickle in, as the music picks up. People hover around him, try to catch his eye, come up to him and talk about his music. He assures each and every old classmate of his that it's really not a big deal, to be a musician.  
  
He was lucky enough to have a four song EP sell well in the US, before his first album dropped globally. It definitely did better in the states than anywhere else, but it did have some traction in Australia. His second album debuted higher, and the first single from it blew up on US adult contemporary radio. He performed it at radio stations, just him and his guitar, for months, which paid off. He definitely can't wait to get back in the studio to record his third album, but he has some more writing to do first.  
  
For every compliment he receives, he graciously smiles and thanks them, for listening, for downloading his music. He says he hasn't won any Grammys just yet, hasn't become an international hit, isn't a household name, so he still has a lot of work to do. He signs a few napkins and takes a few pictures with girls he barely remembers.  
  
When Rachel Goldman straight up asks him who he's been writing about all these years, which girl or guy made him write such lovely and eloquent words, after his years in high school when was "such a loner," he quickly excuses himself, setting his beer on the high top table near the DJ, walking briskly back towards the locker rooms and back hallway that leads to the theater.  
  
Zayn can feel his pulse in his neck, can feel his heart rate is elevated, as he paces in front of the theater doors. He grabs at his hair, the hair he styled perfectly on the top of his head, and wonders why he even gives a shit, all over again. He's not having fun, he's not with his college friends, or friends he's picked up along the way, across the country in dive bars and shitty clubs. He's surrounded by assholes who ignored him for four fucking years, and he doesn't know why he needs them to see him now. If he was a loner in high school, it was their fucking fault.  
  
Just then, he hears movement from the other side of the double doors leading into the dark theater. It's a shuffling of feet, boots scuffing against the marley floor of the stage Zayn used to envy his classmates being brave enough to perform on. He's curious now that his temper has come down, so he gently opens the door and steps in, to see the stage only lit by a few bucket lights.  
  
Zayn almost falls over when he realizes the shadows crawling across the stage are because of Harry Styles.  
  
Harry walks in a circle across the stage, hands in the pockets of his black jeans, hair a mile high, frown on his face. He looks up as the door clicks behind Zayn, before Zayn can catch it with his hand, and they stare at each other for a moment.  
  
"Zayn Malik," Harry says, voice echoing around them.  
  
"Hey," Zayn says, with a simple wave, stepping closer.  
  
"I definitely didn't think you'd show up here," Harry says, walking down the three stairs to the aisle of the theater, as they inch closer, step for step.  
  
Zayn just shrugs and nods, looking up into the rafters, letting the quiet surround him, as the far away bass thumps in the gym.  
  
"Gracing us all with your presence, right? Here to show us all up?"  
  
Zayn slowly brings his head back down, to look at Harry Styles in the eye, the guy he could barely look at in high school, let alone talk to, the drunk guy Zayn helped sit up at that party, the guy who kissed Zayn on the back porch of Sara Irving's house.  
  
A moment ago his stomach was fluttering like it used to when he would watch Harry run during tennis practice, wondering if Harry remembered it, whereas now, his stomach feels like it's made of lead. It drops.  
  
He tilts his head, as Harry looks back at him, face set.  
  
"They say every success story comes from shitty beginnings. I guess we're yours," Harry says, with a final shrug, stepping around Zayn.  
  
Zayn doesn't know what to do.  
  
He doesn't move, doesn't follow Harry with his body, or his eyes. He just listens as Harry walks back to the doors, snapping it closed behind him, leaving Zayn alone, staring at the stage he never set foot on.  
  
So Zayn walks up those three stairs, up onto that stage, and walks around it, for the very first time. His shoes don't squeak, he doesn't falter, doesn't trip over himself. He walks around a stage like he has almost every night for the last few years with a guitar slung across his body. He thinks that if Harry Styles got this stage as a teenager, a teenager who didn't know better, a kid who didn't appreciate it, it's about fucking time he realize it's Zayn's now.  
  
He walks in another circle, thinking about Harry. He's not happy exactly, about the short conversation he's just had with him, but it was more than they ever spoke in school. It finally happened, Harry finally saw him. He wasn't drunk, and he wasn't horny, kissing any person who happened to be sitting next to him.  
  
He apparently thinks Zayn is a dick, a dick coming back to his high school to make people feel worse about themselves. Zayn has to hand it to him, because he's absolutely right. He also thinks that the kid with the soft lips and yellow Chucks wasn't the man on this stage, ten years later, and it's a shame. He looked bitter. Sad. He looked like the type of man who hates on another man's success, to his face.  
  
But Zayn doesn't care. It took ten years, but he bettered himself. He got out, he kissed about a million different guys, he did it. He became the master of his fate, as they say.  
  
When he faces the seats, faces the door Harry just walked out of, Zayn smiles.  
  
Because he's Zayn Malik, the singer/songwriter with so many people in his phone, he doesn't remember who half of them are.

  
  
***

  
"We are just so excited to see so many faces here tonight, after ten years. We can't thank you enough for your continued support for our school, our beloved alma mater," Megan Goodson says into the microphone, atop the small stage set up in the gym. The DJ next to her lazily plays with buttons, looking bored out of his mind, and Zayn wants nothing more than to leave at this point. He did what he came to do, saw the people he needed to see.  
  
But it would be rude to leave during this speech, whatever the fuck Megan is saying, so he shakes his glass and takes another drink. He glances over to a table not far away, a table where Harry and Niall Horan have set up camp with various tennis and debate friends, laughing their asses off.  
  
They lock eyes, right as Harry brings his eyes back down, as his smile slides right off his face.  
  
"…So let's bring him up here! Zayn Malik!"  
  
Zayn snaps his head back to the stage, to Megan and the people in front of him now staring at him. He fucking knew it would happen, knew it was coming, but he's suddenly nervous. He's performed in front of crowds ten times this size, if not more, and yet he's sweating like he's about to give an oral report like in tenth grade.  
  
He smiles loosely, makes his way to the stage, wondering what the hell he's even going to say, when he hears the applause and cheering. He shakes it off, breathes deep. He can do this, he can turn it on.  
  
"Thank you, Megan," he says with a smile, taking the mic, facing his graduating class. "Uh, I don't have much to say, I guess. Just happy to be back, to see everyone, see you all. It's good to be back in the place where we all grew up, you know? The place where we all formed ourselves, the place where we laid the groundwork for the people we'd become. Uh, I also want to say that I wish Jason Garcia could be here with us. He was my friend. Uh… And I didn't know all of you in high school, but if you're ever in LA, or if you want tickets to a show, just look me up."  
  
Zayn gives a wave as everyone starts clapping again, as Megan takes the mic back, to keep talking about various peoples' accomplishments. He walks back to his table and eyes Harry Styles, just because. He looks back at him. He looks sad.  
  
Zayn sits down and faces the stage again, pulling at his collar. He feels like a dick. He also feels like a fraud. Because his palms are still sweating and he still wants to bolt from this room full of people, people still staring at him.  
  
A few more people get on stage, say random words about what it means to go through high school together, to come out the other side as a group, how special it is, but Zayn tunes out. He wants to leave, wants to be away from the people who make him feel small.  
  
So once the music starts back up, once people start dancing like it's prom, drunk and rowdy, Zayn makes his way back to the main doors to get his jacket. He's by the photo boards, about to turn down the hallway to the coats, when he hears it.  
  
"Hey, Malik!"  
  
Zayn stills, frozen in place, at the voice coming at him over his shoulder. He winces, turning.  
  
"What the fuck! Zayn Malik! We haven't talked, dude! How are things?"  
  
As his mother would say, you could've knocked Zayn over with a feather, as his eyes practically bulge out of his skull, at the sight in front of him. Tucker Mallory definitely didn't age well, is the thing. He's heavier. Balder. He's wearing a pair of dad jeans so horrific, if Zayn's stylist Caroline saw them, she'd probably puke. He's alone, swaying slightly, a beer in his massive hand.  
  
"Tucker," he says back, emotionless.  
  
See, Zayn can turn it on for everyone else, can slap a smile on his face to show up the people who didn't see him, the people who forgot to remember him. They at least were just self involved, too wrapped up in their high school bullshit to realize the kid behind them in class hadn't spoken in two weeks. But Tucker Mallory? Zayn could give two shits about Tucker Mallory, because he knew for a fact he was better than him. He didn't think about Tucker, give a shit if he knew about him, knew who he was now. Tucker didn't deserve any of Zayn's time, not anymore.  
  
"Dude! You're all famous now! That's sick!"  
  
Zayn stares at him, is about to turn away and leave.  
  
"You miss this place? I miss it. I miss those days, you know?" Tucker says, clapping his hand against Zayn's shoulder, closer now. He gestures around at the photos on either side of them, at their classmates' grinning faces.  
  
"I don't miss anything about this place," Zayn sighs, trying to extricate himself from his grasp.  
  
But Tucker doesn't let go, he holds tighter. He gets closer to Zayn now, right in his space. And if Zayn didn't know any better, he was in eleventh grade again, Tucker Mallory in his face, breathing on him, laughing at him, shoving at him.  
  
Tonight it's not like that at all.  
  
"You were always so pretty. Did you know that? How pretty you were?" Tucker whispers, closer, holding his arm firmly, swaying.  
  
Zayn shakes him off, backs away, chest heaving. He can tell the situation is getting too heavy, that Tucker Mallory should not be calling him pretty, or touching him in any way. He steps back again, as Tucker steps forward.  
  
But just then, Zayn feels a body move from behind him, grabbing his arm and pulling him back. Harry shields him, facing Tucker.  
  
"Go back inside, Tuck. Go on," Harry says, angry.  
  
"Fuck off, Styles. Who the fuck are you, bro? Fuck off," Tucker slurs, shoving at him.  
  
But Harry can be scary when he wants to be, when he gets that intense look on his face, the look that sends people like Tucker Mallory scurrying off with their tails between their legs. So he steadily puts his arm out and pushes Tucker back towards the gym, not hard, but with intent.  
  
"Go back inside," he says again, firmer.  
  
"Fuck, dude. Whatever," Tucker says, changing his tactic, now just holding his hands up, laughing, like it's all fun and games. "Are you guys going to Shane's after all this? He's giving everyone a deal, dude. Half off drinks! Karaoke!"  
  
Tucker gives a wave, looks Zayn in the eye, and then walks unsteadily back into the gym, the darkness swallowing him up, as the bass thumps against the walls around them.  
  
Harry moves away from Zayn at that point, once the threat of danger is gone, and Zayn hates to see him go. Their body heat mixed so well together, standing close. He could smell Harry's cologne when he stood in front of him. He could've reached out a finger and run it down his spine, they were so close.  
  
"Thanks," Zayn says quietly, looking down, feeling like a fucking child.  
  
"No worries," Harry says, walking near him, looking at the photos, as The Cure plays in the gym. He touches a photo of himself on stage with his band, runs a finger across his shining face.  
  
Zayn doesn't know what to do now, if he should leave Harry be, let him look at the pictures like he was before Zayn showed up with Tucker in tow. Right as he's about to turn, Harry speaks again.  
  
"Sorry, about before."  
  
Zayn doesn't say anything. He stays quiet.  
  
"I work for my dad, you know. I work for his firm downtown," he says, turning to look at Zayn again.  
  
"That's cool," Zayn nods, not understanding where Harry's headed.  
  
"You did it, Zayn. You graduated from this shithole, went to school, decided what you wanted to do, and then actually fucking did it. You did it. You make music and tour the world. You have it all," Harry says with a resigned sigh.  
  
Zayn doesn't know what to say again.  
  
"So, sorry for before, for making you feel like shit. I'm just jealous," he shrugs, honest and open. "You said earlier that we laid the groundwork here, for the people we'd become. I'm not an asshole, I swear. I'm not that person. I don't want to be jealous of you anymore."  
  
Zayn nods, looking at his shoes.  
  
"You want to get a drink? We have to get drunk here, man. We won't survive it otherwise," Harry says, smiling now, gesturing back towards the gym.  
  
Zayn laughs with him and follows, follows Harry Styles just like he would've followed him off a cliff at seventeen, if Harry had asked nicely enough. As he sits down and Niall Horan shakes his hand, an easy smile on his face, a beer shoved in his hand, Zayn makes a vow to himself to enjoy it.  
  
If he's going to spend the rest of this night in his high school, he's going to have fun like he's in high school, like he used to with Jason. He's not going to be the kid who sits on the sidelines, who lets other people enjoy themselves. He's an adult now. He can do this.  
  
He showed them all, how good he is, but the show's done now.  
  
So when Harry makes a joke about Tucker Mallory's beer belly, Zayn laughs so hard he almost cries.

  
  
***

  
Zayn's first kiss was when he was eleven, with a girl who lived next door to them, the year they lived in South Carolina. He doesn't even remember her name, which is kind of alarming, when he thinks back on it, wondering if his memory is slipping. But she was nice enough, had long red hair, soft lips. They giggled the whole time, behind the shed, Doniya keeping a look out for him. He knew right afterwards that he didn't enjoy it much. Girls liked stupid stuff, girly stuff, stuff his sisters had in their rooms, all covered in pink. But he kissed a few more over the years, tried to get more into it.  
  
It wasn't until high school, when Jason wagged his eyebrows and practically shoved him at his friend Derek, daring them to finally kiss, that it all sort of fell into place. Derek held his face and kissed the very breath out of him, in Jason's basement while Jason "went to make a phone call upstairs," and it was perfect. Derek gave him his first blowjob too, which was an experience, that's for sure.  
  
The whole saga actually inspired two of Zayn's songs from his first album, songs he's still so unbelievably proud of, songs full of the angst and pain so many kids go through, trying to figure out whose genitals they were attracted to.  
  
So the night before graduation, when Harry leaned over and kissed him, it wasn't so much that he was surprised by kissing someone he barely knew, or even surprised to be kissing a guy. It was the fact that it was Harry Styles, when Harry Styles could kiss anyone he damn well wanted.  
  
Zayn wasn't even supposed to be at Sara Irving's party. His dad, honest to god, dropped him off for it and told him to have fun. Yaser could _see_ the beer pong table from the driveway and he _still_ shoved Zayn out of the passenger side, told him to have one last night in high school, before he realized he could never go back again, before he had to grow up. So Zayn angrily drank beer out of pure spite, in the kitchen with a few guys from the newspaper staff, just because.  
  
He was barely tipsy when he went to catch his breath on the back porch, to find Harry Styles sitting on the steps leading down into the grass, a bottle of rum in his hand, eyes closed. Zayn glanced back into the house, wondering where Niall or one of his other friends were, before deciding to help. He sat down next to him, shoved him a little with his shoulder, as Harry had started to slump over, exhaustion and haziness hitting him all at once. Zayn was afraid Harry was going to fall asleep sitting up, next to a stranger on the steps, so he nudged Harry's yellow Chuck with his foot, shaking him.  
  
"Hey Harry, don't fall asleep here, yeah?" Zayn said timidly, not sure if Harry knew him well enough to trust his voice, knew him at all.  
  
Harry helped him a few times when people were being dicks to him, but they weren't like, on speaking terms, or friends.  
  
"Okay," Harry whispered, eyes closed.  
  
"You wanna go inside? Get you a nice couch to sleep on?"  
  
"Yeah, okay. Three minutes," he said, holding up two fingers, eyes still closed.  
  
"Okay," Zayn smiled, facing forward again, letting the crickets sound out around them.  
  
That stupid Eve 6 song came on about then, the song every fucking graduating class since 2000 has played when graduating, as people yelled out and started hollering together. Zayn heard a few girls squealing, probably crying and hugging each other, drunk and messy, listening to words about nights of feeling alive.  
  
Zayn felt himself shrug at the song's lyrics, not having many nights like the singer described, not since Jason.  
  
"I'm gonna miss being seventeen, you know? I already miss being a kid," Harry said, finally opening his eyes, looking at Zayn.  
  
Zayn hadn't thought of it like that, of not missing high school or these people, but instead missing this time, this age. He thought about it, thought about why his dad wanted him at the party in the first place, so he nodded, looking back at Harry.  
  
"Yeah, I get that. It's like they want us to be grownups, but we're still like… children, you know? It's like our eyes are just opening, it's scary," Zayn said, as Harry leaned into him further.  
  
"Yeah, you're right."  
  
"But we'll be okay. We'll be fine," Zayn whispered.  
  
Zayn could sense Harry's eyes on him, so he turned his head back to look at him, the stranger he stared at for four years, the stranger he always wanted to know, the stranger who made him feel _seen_.  
  
"I wish I would've gotten to know you better," Harry said, eyes drooping.  
  
"Me too, Hazza. Me too," Zayn said, sadly.  
  
Before he could react, Harry leaned in, their shoes knocking together, and kissed him. His lips were wet as they rested against Zayn's, insistent. Zayn slowly opened his mouth to let Harry's tongue in, right as Harry brought his hand up to Zayn's face. He ran his thumb along his cheek as they kissed on those stairs, another sentimental song coming through the speakers. It was, without a doubt, the best kiss Zayn had ever experienced.  
  
They didn't separate until someone broke something inside, people screaming from the broken glass, both pulling back at the same time, breathing heavier. Harry's eyes were getting cloudier, but it didn't stop him from moving his hand from Zayn's face slowly, his thumb running along Zayn's bottom lip just once.  
  
Zayn helped him inside and put him on a couch in the basement, where Harry passed out before Zayn could even get his shoes off.  
  
The next day at graduation, Harry walked the stage to thunderous applause, whereas Zayn walked it with just his family's cheers and other polite clapping ringing in his ears. The last time they really looked at each other was when Zayn walked towards the parking lot, his mom's arm linked through his, as Harry walked the opposite way.  
  
Harry smiled at him, which was something Zayn took comfort in ever since.  
  
And until the reunion, that was it.

  
  
***

  
Niall Horan says, quite boisterously, that he wishes Zayn would've been in their circle of friends in high school, as they sit around the table in the gym, getting drunker and drunker. He slings his arms around Zayn's shoulders, as he tells him all about the stupid shit they used to do on the weekends, all the stories they had as rowdy teenage boys in a shitty town with nothing to do.  
  
Zayn laughs along with them, let's himself be hugged and touched by Niall and other friends of Harry's. He feels so accepted, he's bursting with it. It doesn't matter how many records he sells or how many crowds sing back at him. He knows it then, that it doesn't matter how much you think you're above it: we all want our high school peers to see us as worthy, even if it's ten years too late.  
  
So Zayn signs a few of their napkins, takes a few more pictures with them. Niall even asks him to do a little video for his nephew, a video saying hi, as the awful music blasts around them, as the girls they knew as children danced with their husbands around them.  
  
Caleb Something-Or-Other, Zayn can't remember, asks him about his upcoming album, which makes Zayn smile, knowing they're not just being nice to him because he's marginally famous; they also give a shit about what he does.  
  
"I start writing soon, actually. I'm excited," he smiles, taking another drink.  
  
"Your song was fucking huge here, dude. The one a few years ago, the one they played during the credits of that movie," Caleb says, as all the guys around them start settling down, as they begin to listen in.  
  
"Yeah, that was sick. I was so happy they asked to use it. Very cool," Zayn says, cheeks reddening slightly. He still gets giddy when he thinks about his song being popular, the song he put so much of his heart into, he can't help but be proud when it's brought up.  
  
"I love that song! I can play it on my guitar, it's at the bar right now in my truck! You should let me play for you!" Niall says, punching in the air, laughing.  
  
"Sure," Zayn laughs.  
  
"Oh god, don't encourage him," Harry smiles, knocking his beer against Zayn's.  
  
"Fuck off, Harry. Like you've even heard it," Niall says, rolling his eyes, as Harry looks down at his feet. "He hasn't listened to it, is the thing. Any time it comes on the radio, any fucking time he hears your voice, he shuts the damn thing off! Jealous twat."  
  
Zayn looks to Harry, but Harry won't look at him yet.  
  
"Nah, it's cool. Everyone has different tastes, right?" Zayn shrugs.  
  
"I told you I was jealous," Harry says, looking up at him, sheepishly.  
  
He's embarrassed, Zayn can tell. So he leans over and throws an easy arm around his shoulders, telling him it's fine.  
  
"S'okay, Hazza," he says, whispering, as the rest of the guys move on to another subject. "Probably best."  
  
Harry looks at him, stares right at him, and Zayn feels hot.

  
  
***

  
Soon after, Tucker Mallory walked around the gym, yelling at the top of his lungs to anyone who would listen that there was an after party at Shane's, the bar a few blocks from the school, complete with drinks and music and body shots.  
  
Most of the girls still dancing, forcing their husbands and significant others to move around with them, seemed tired and not into it at all. But the group Zayn found himself sitting with, Harry and Niall and the fun guys of the night, they seemed into it.  
  
Zayn looked at Harry, and Harry looked back at him, and Zayn knew he was going to the bar whether he wanted to or not. He felt his body propelling forward, knew he couldn't stop, so he walked with them and they grabbed their jackets together.  
  
Their group, along with Julianne McCormick and Kate Stephensen, and a few other random girls, slowly walked to Shane's, laughing and telling more stories Zayn couldn't participate in. So he listened, smiled as they regaled him with stories about puking in bushes, school dances they got crazy at, parties they threw for each other.  
  
He doesn't notice Harry's not with him until they're about halfway to the bar, so he looks around, trying to spot him.  
  
Harry's behind him, walking slowly, hands in his pockets of the tight jeans like the ones he started to wear senior year when he thinned out, black boots scuffing the concrete.  
  
"Hey," Zayn says, falling back, walking with him slowly, as the sounds ahead of them get softer.  
  
"Hey," Harry smiles, looking up at him.  
  
"You good? Are you drunk? Do you need anything?" Zayn offers.  
  
"Nah, I'm good. No need to save me like last time," he says back, still smiling.  
  
Zayn feels his heart rate pick back up, feels the sweat along his hairline. Harry remembers their kiss and is actually mentioning it this very second. He walks for a few more seconds, gets his shit together, remembers he's a grown ass man, an adult, not the kid in high school anymore. And this is Harry Styles, a grown ass man with wide shoulders and a laugh that still makes his knees weak.  
  
"I didn't mind," he says finally, smiling at the ground.  
  
"I never thanked you for that, for getting me inside… But also for like, easing my mind about getting older, I guess. That was nice of you, to help me, when we didn't know each other."  
  
"I knew you," Zayn says, looking up to Harry's face, as Harry turns to him.  
  
They stare.  
  
"I knew you, too."

  
  
***

  
Shane's is completely dead, except for Tucker and three of his old friends, when they walk in as a huge group. But the guy behind the bar, a guy Zayn vaguely remembers as being a few years older than them, rolls his eyes and smiles like he was expecting them.  
  
Niall immediately throws his arms out, yelling about drinks and booze, as they all start to settle in at the bar and in various booths. He hops behind the bar and starts serving up his friends like he owns the place, and Zayn smiles.  
  
He has a feeling he would've gotten along with Niall back in school. Maybe he should've taken more chances. Maybe his dad was fucking right.  
  
"You want a drink?" Harry asks him, hand on his lower back.  
  
Zayn feels it through his shirt, feels it in his bones, in his rib cage, the feeling of Harry touching him like this, now, after their conversation on the walk over.  
  
"Yeah, yeah thanks," he grunts out, coughing into his fist.  
  
Harry smiles and makes his way around him, towards the bar, right as Niall starts tossing bottles, mixing drinks. Two girls get up on the little karaoke stage and start singing "I Wish" by Skee-Lo, which is a massive hit with the group of drunk people. Tucker starts bopping around the bar, eyes finding Zayn once or twice, which Zayn absolutely ignores.  
  
Harry sits next to him in a booth, as they watch a few more girls get on stage, this time singing "Tainted Love," another hit with Harry's friends. Zayn laughs as they got more and more into it, Caleb's girlfriend joining them, grabbing the mic and singing right at him by the stage.  
  
"Your friends are nice," Zayn says, turning to Harry. "Wish I would've known them as kids."  
  
"Me too," Harry frowns.  
  
Zayn shakes his head, tries to show Harry he's not feeling sorry for himself, is about to say so, but Harry talks over him.  
  
"I should've treated you better back then, should've included you," he says, still frowning.  
  
"Are you serious?" Zayn asks, incredulously, as Niall dances past them. "You were the only person who fucking saw me in high school, Harry. The only one. You made it bearable."  
  
"Exactly, I should've grown a pair and told anyone who fucked with you to leave you alone. I should've grabbed you in the halls, or the gym, or in the middle of fucking class if I had to, to tell you… that I saw you, that I was there."  
  
Zayn thinks back to those days, to the days of Tucker Mallory, the days he ate alone in the music room, the days he walked around the track during free periods because he didn't want to be inside without Jason, and he frowns, too. It fucking sucked. High school sucked.  
  
"High school sucked," Zayn smiles at him, bringing his eyes up. "It sucks for everyone, I think. Even wonder boys like you probably had shitty days, right?"  
  
Harry laughs, but nods.  
  
"So whatever. We got out the other side. We're here. We're fine," Zayn says, nudging Harry's arm, mirroring what he told Harry all those years ago on the steps of Sara Irving's house.  
  
"Yeah, we're here," Harry says quietly.  
  
Zayn feels it, feels him leaning in. The whole trip was worth this moment, Zayn thinks. Because Harry Styles was the one person who got away, the one person he should've held tighter, the one person he shouldn't have waited to kiss until the night before graduation. If he had to wait ten years, had to wait through ten years of lyrics and notes and sheet music, it was worth it. Because Harry looks at him like it's all he's ever wanted, too.  
  
"Zayn, look!"  
  
Zayn snaps out of it, out of the trance they were in, out of the lean that would inevitably lead to their second kiss. He snaps his head to the stage, to Kate Stephensen at the little podium to the left of the microphone stand, holding a massive binder.  
  
"Zayn, they have your song! They have it here! You should sing it for us! Play it!" she squeals, drunk, nodding to the guitar in the corner. Zayn almost rolls his eyes, at the acoustic guitar so conveniently placed on the stage.  
  
"Holy shit, yes! Yes, Zayn!" Niall yells from behind the bar, eyes wide and wild. "I have my guitar in my truck outside! I'll play with you and sing your harmony!"  
  
Niall doesn't even wait for an answer, he just scrambles over the bar top and is out the door in about three seconds flat. Zayn's head is spinning, as he looks back at Harry's dopey grin, arm now around his shoulders.  
  
The bar starts a chant, everyone yelling out his name, as Kate says into the microphone she's queuing up the song whether he likes it or not. Zayn looks around at the people he didn't know in high school, the people he barely knows now, and he wants nothing more than to sing his favorite song, right now, tonight, with a drunken crazy person like Niall Horan.  
  
So he turns back to Harry. He looks at Harry Styles and wants to play him his song, the song he doesn't know has always been his.  
  
"It'd be nice to hear you play, for the first time," Harry blushes, embarrassed again for his earlier jealously, for the fact he's never listened to a word of Zayn's music.  
  
Zayn smiles. It's oddly appropriate, the situation they've found themselves in. He grabs at Harry's thigh under the table, a quick movement, as Harry's smile gets bigger. He hops out of the booth, rolling up the sleeves of his white button-up to his elbows, and makes his way to the stage right as Niall comes running back in with a black acoustic guitar across his chest.  
  
Someone brings up two stools for them to sit on side by side, Zayn settling himself with the guitar previously sitting on the stage. He strums a few times, checks if it's in tune, tweaks the G string slightly, puts the capo in the middle of the neck. People are nervously fidgeting around them, excited, a few of them getting their phones out to record videos for the suckers who didn't come to the after party.  
  
He grabs the microphone and steadies it in front of his mouth, smiling at the group of people staring at him with lit up eyes. This is his favorite part of any acoustic set, the moment right before he starts playing, before his voice kicks in. It's a quiet moment, a moment he cherishes and savors, as he looks around, smiling.  
  
Zayn becomes Zayn Malik in that moment, the moment he smiles over at Niall.  
  
"You gonna sing my harmony, Niall? You got this?" he says into the mic in his gravely stage voice, with half a smirk.  
  
"Fuck yes," Niall says into the other mic, strumming a bit, as everyone laughs.  
  
"Okay," he says, turning back to the room, as Kate starts the karaoke track, the track with just a soft guitar and lyrics on the screen to his left. "Here we go, guys. If you guys wanna sing along…"  
  
["Never Had"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1H2Kmyf0rMo) pops up on the screen in blue letters, as the track counts them in, as he and Niall begin to play in unison.  
  
 _I've been gone for so long now_  
 _Chasing everything that's new_  
 _I've forgotten how I got here_  
 _But I've not forgotten you_  
 _We were just children but our eyes opened_  
 _And you were all that I could see_  
  
 _Through the good times and the bad_  
 _You were the best I never had_  
 _The only chance I wish I had to take_  
 _But there was no writing on the wall_  
 _No warning signs to follow_  
 _I know now_  
 _And I just can't forget_  
 _You're the best I never had_  
  
Zayn sings the _na na nas_ , looking up to the crowd, as him and Niall continue playing his favorite song, the best song he's ever written, the song they'll probably play for every event he attends for the rest of his life. Harry stares at him like he's the fucking sun, and Zayn smiles to himself, right as the next verse comes in.  
  
 _In this motel_  
 _Well past midnight_  
 _When I'm bluer than a bruise_  
 _You come drifting in through the half light_  
 _In your funny yellow shoes_  
  
Zayn looks up right as he sings it, looks into Harry's eyes, and he can practically hear his gasp. Harry has to bring his hand up to his face, to cover his smile, as Zayn's voice fills the entire bar.  
  
 _And I hope that's you standing at my doorway_  
 _That's the scratchin' of your key_  
 _And I hope this song I'm singing_  
 _Someday finds you_  
 _Wherever you may be_  
  
 _Oh, through the good times and the bad_  
 _You were the best I never had_  
 _The only chance I wish I had to take_  
 _But there was no writing on the wall_  
 _No warning signs to follow_  
 _I know now_  
 _And I just can't forget_  
 _You're the best I never had_  
 _Na na, na na na_  
 _The best I never had..._  
  
As the final note plays, as Niall strums that final down beat, Zayn looks to Harry again, as the bar erupts in applause, as they all stand up and cheer. It's not the high school theater, but it's just as good, just as validating, to have these people happy to hear his voice.  
  
Harry's chin shakes, as he stares back at Zayn.  
  
Zayn says a quick, "Thanks guys," before putting the guitar back in the corner and making his way back to the booth.  
  
He's just about to sit back down next to Harry, when Harry slides out of it, knocking into him and pushing him away. Zayn frowns in confusion.  
  
But Harry grabs his hand and very determinedly, because he's Harry Styles, pulls Zayn back towards the bathrooms, as Niall whistles behind them.  
  
Zayn smiles as he trips over his feet.  
  

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

It's funny, the first and only thing that hits you in moments of passion, or anger, or joy, or life altering situations, the thing that comes to you when your head should be clear or absolutely open. It's like how some people laugh when they're nervous, or someone who smiles when a friend tells them a sad story. They're probably thinking of something totally random, something weird, something no one knows, because it clouds their vision in those intense moments. It gets in the way of what's really happening, and their brains can't stop it.  
  
Zayn's mom told him that when confronted with something challenging or frustrating, when something comes at her out of nowhere, she immediately thinks of watermelon because her cousin threw it at her during an argument once when they were kids, a slice of watermelon she flung out of her hands right at Trisha's face. That's always Trisha's first thought when in a fight, watermelon.  
  
Zayn always figured he didn't have his own version of watermelon, his version of "why is this popping into my head at this random moment?" because he never really thought about it. That is, until Harry is shoving him against the wall in the hallway leading to the bathroom at Shane's.  
  
Because he realizes, as his back hits the shitty fake wooden surface that lines the entire bar, eyes hazy from the beers he's had, as he sees the dim light hitting Harry's face, he _does_ have a random thought, he's always had one. The first thing that pops into his head when he's about to be kissed, about to kiss someone, about to see someone open and ready for him, like right now, is Jason.  
  
Jason told him once, when they were practicing in the music room sophomore year, that he felt like a fraud. That was the word he used, a word Zayn's always found fascinating since, "fraud." He had set his guitar down, after they wrote a few more lyrics to a song they were working on, a song about the all encompassing embrace of a person, of "the one," and said that he felt like a fraud.  
  
"You're not supposed to write about things you don't know, Z. That's what they say, right? You're supposed to write about what you _do_ know, about your life. It's supposed to come from an honest place," he said, frown on his face, shaking his head, sad. "I've never loved anyone. This is all bullshit. I feel like a fraud."  
  
Zayn looked back at him, at the messy black hair skimming along the back of his neck, his dark skin, the crease between his eyebrows, and knew this was Jason being totally and completely honest. He wasn't been funny, or trying to make a joke. He was worried. Nervous. Usually it was the opposite, Zayn the one second guessing every choice, every word, while Jason rolled his eyes and said it was "all good, Z." Jason was always the one making Zayn laugh, making Zayn sane, not the other way around.  
  
But Zayn knew what he needed. He needed to be told that he'd find someone, sure. But he also needed to hear that they were good enough.  
  
"Yeah, I guess," Zayn said carefully, setting his guitar down next to him. "But like, we're in high school, you know? So yeah, we don't know everything about being in love yet, not like… firsthand or anything. But we know love itself, you know?"  
  
Jason couldn't shake the sad expression on his face, but he looked up at Zayn anyways, eyes still searching for an answer.  
  
"We love our parents, J. We love our families. We love Batman, and singing in the park at night when we're not supposed to. We love those gross generic taffies from 7-Eleven, and the scrambled porn channel in your basement," Zayn said, finishing with a smile.  
  
It worked, as Jason's face broke out into a grin, his big, wide grin that showed almost every perfectly white tooth in his mouth.  
  
"We love a lot. We love all the time, every day, constantly. We love so much shit, J. So we'll write about girls for you, and guys for me, and it might not be totally true just yet. But it will be, and when it is, we'll like… smile at each other on stage, in front of about a million people, and we'll remember this conversation."  
  
Zayn said it so firmly, like his words were being written into stone somewhere, like he was without a doubt foretelling their inevitable future, as he nodded his head. It would happen. They'd make it happen. They'd write about love, and then fall in love, and it'd all be worth it.  
  
When Zayn looked up and saw the crease in Jason's forehead getting lost, as he reached down to grab his guitar and bring it back to his lap, Zayn knew he didn't have to say it. He didn't need to say anything further, because he knew Jason knew.  
  
They loved a lot, all the time, every day, constantly. They loved so much shit. And when Jason smiled at him, as Zayn picked up his own guitar and started to strum again, they both knew it, wordlessly: they loved each other, too.  
  
Jason rolled his eyes as they begin playing their song, and Zayn knew he was silently telling him off for being dramatic and cheesy and sentimental, for being Zayn Malik. Zayn kicked his foot out, got him right in the calf, because he's a songwriter, goddamnit. He's supposed to be sentimental.  
  
So that's what Zayn realizes, as Harry Styles starts to grab for his face, that Jason Garcia is his first thought when confronted with something like this, something like affection, or lust, or passion. He remembers Jason and how he never got the chance to fall in love, never had this, never even got laid. He realizes that every kiss and every sexual encounter since he was seventeen reminds him of his best friend.  
  
He can't help it, now that it's finally hit him like a bus. He's a songwriter, after all. He feels his emotions, feels every single one of them, he's a quote-unquote "artist" and has to record it all to memory. So he reaches a hand out and pushes against Harry's chest, right as he's about to lean in and kiss Zayn again, for the first time in ten years.  
  
Harry looks at him, eyes hurt, confused, as Zayn keeps his hand on his chest, just below his neck.  
  
"S'wrong?" Harry pants out, nervous now.  
  
"Nothing, just wanted to look," Zayn says quietly, a smile creeping onto his face, as he takes it in, takes in Harry's face, the beating of his heart against his hand, the way the light is hitting him. It's fucking perfect.  
  
So when Harry starts to lean back in, as Zayn braces himself, he thinks about Jason. He does it for Jason, just like he's done all of it for Jason. He lets himself feel it, feel it in his bones. He lets Harry wash over him, like he's in high school, like they're children with their eyes open.  
  
Harry kisses him and it's the perfect mix between hard and soft, insistent and patient, fast and slow. It has so many goddamn layers to it, it says _thanks for my song,_ and _thanks for being here,_ and _please god don't leave yet._ Zayn forces himself to pay attention, to taste Harry over and over, to let in Harry's tongue as he pushes back at him. Harry makes a sound, a small sound that Zayn wants to have on a loop in his head, wants on his loop pedal. He wants to hear it again so badly, he kisses Harry harder, smiling slightly, it's so fucking good.  
  
Harry pulls back first, out of breath, still only an inch from Zayn's face, his hands on Zayn's neck.  
  
"When did you write it? When did you write the song?" he pants, in a low voice.  
  
"I had almost the whole first verse in my head by the time I got home that night," Zayn says back, nudging Harry's cheek with his nose, willing him to remember their first kiss, their last conversation.  
  
"When did you finish it?"  
  
"The night before I had to turn my album into the label, in a shitty motel in Nashville. I thought about you all the time," Zayn finishes, before Harry leans in, licking his way back into his mouth.  
  
"Yeah?" Harry says, pulling back, before kissing him again, like he can barely stop to take a breath, let alone speak.  
  
"All the time. You. And those fucking shoes, those yellow Chucks, Haz," Zayn says firmly, grabbing his head, pushing him against the other wall, crowding against him.  
  
Harry makes that sound again, right into his mouth, and Zayn swallows it, saves it. So they stay there for a while, they savor it. They kiss like they're teenagers, in the hallway of Shane's, over and over, hands roaming over skin and bodies like it's the first time.  
  
"I saw you, I always saw you, I swear. I'm sorry it took me so long, I'm sorry I never said it," Harry says into his mouth, lips barely leaving his.  
  
Zayn doesn't say anything back because he can't. Not yet. He wants to enjoy the kiss first. So he just nods into it, let's Harry know he hears it. He holds his face in his hands, gripping him harder.  
  
And if Jason Garcia could've seen it, he probably would've rolled his eyes and smiled, and said something along the lines of, _about fucking time, Z, about fucking time._

  
  
***

  
It would've been perfect, the entire night after arriving at Shane's, had Tucker Mallory not walked in on them in that hallway. Zayn can't help but think, as they break apart, that _of course_ it's Tucker who needs to piss at that moment, _of course_ it's him who finds them tangled up together.  
  
"Well holy fucking shit," Tucker slurs, as he makes his way towards them, a sneer on his face.  
  
Harry doesn't even say anything, doesn't say a word to get Tucker away from them, because it's so clearly not worth it. Tucker Mallory deserves absolutely none of their time or energy, not on this night, their night, and Harry tells Zayn so with his eyes.  
  
Zayn smiles at him, as he goes to pull Harry back to the bar, both of them adjusting their jeans now, as they pause to finish this later, when Tucker reaches out and shoves them both.  
  
"Fuck you," Tucker slurs again, as Zayn knocks into Harry, before they both knock into the wall.  
  
They still try to wordlessly move on, move away, but Tucker won't have it.  
  
"Just because you can sing a little fucking song, can sing in little fucking bars like this, Malik, does't mean a goddamn thing, okay? You're still a fucking loser, still the loser who shows up to shit alone," he says, now with a small laugh, walking around them.  
  
Zayn can feel Harry's body tense up, as he pulls at his hand to get them away.  
  
"And way to go, picking Styles here. Wonder Boy never did a fucking thing, did he? Just works for daddy, right? Good luck with that, Zayn. Have fun fucking him in the basement of his fucking _mom's_ house. Have fun," he repeats, laughing now, head thrown back, as he finally walks into the bathroom.  
  
Harry shakes in anger, as Zayn just shakes his head. He's used to this, is used to verbal jabs by people like Tucker. Harry clearly isn't.  
  
"Let's go have another drink, Haz. Let's go," Zayn says quietly, pulling his hand harder now.  
  
Harry looks at him, blinks a few times, before nodding. He follows Zayn.

  
  
***

  
Niall Horan, as it turns out, won't let anyone leave a bar until he damn well says so. And the second Zayn and Harry make their way back into their booth from before, Niall is already shaking his head, mouthing _no, no, no_ over and over, until Harry laughs. He whispers to Zayn that they can't leave just yet, fearing for their lives if they attempt it. Niall claps them both on the shoulders, because he knows what they just did, what they'll probably do once the bar closes, but he also hands them two more beers.  
  
Zayn doesn't think the night could get any better, that is until Niall pulls Harry on stage and forces him to duet a Killers song with him. The entire bar screams along with them, right as the key changes at the end of the song, and Zayn feels like his face is going to split in two, seeing Harry Styles on a stage again with a mic in his hand. He shines. He feels it in his bones.  
  
Harry kisses his cheek afterwards, as he slides back into the booth, lets his lips linger against Zayn's skin, and Zayn feels that in his bones too.  
  
As it gets late, as people start calling cabs and walking home, as girls start crying and hugging, Niall finally relents. He looks like he's just about to relieve the pair of them, finally, to let them go for the night, when Tucker Mallory chooses to open his fucking mouth again.  
  
"I mean, if people wanna grow up and be faggots together, fine by me. Live and let live, you know?" he yells out loudly, speaking to his dumb ass friends near the stage.  
  
Zayn tenses at the word, the word he's heard on stage only twice, the word he knows Harry wants to beat the shit out of. He can feel Harry's body shaking again in the booth, as they sit close, and he knows this time Harry is going to do something about this prick once and for all.  
  
But Niall is Niall, and he beats him to it, punching Tucker in the face so hard, he's gushing blood before he even hits the floor.  
  
A few people gasp, a few people laugh. Caleb laughs so hard, he has to clutch his stomach. It's slightly chaotic after that, people running around, as Niall readies himself for Tucker's comeback.  
  
But Tucker is down for the count at the moment, on the floor, yelling about his face, his precious nose, as his friends tend to him. The music continues playing around them, and Zayn can't help but appreciate Niall.  
  
He looks at Harry, as Harry turns to look at him, and they both smile. Violence isn't funny, especially to Zayn because he's been on the receiving end of it so often, but it seems like an oddly appropriate end to the Tucker Mallory saga.  
  
"Fuck him," Harry whispers, grabbing his hand under the table.  
  
"Yeah," Zayn laughs.  
  
"You wanna go do something fun?" Harry says with a devilish look in his eye.  
  
"Okay."  
  
"We have to hurry, let's go," Harry says in a rush, grabbing him and pulling him out of the booth.  
  
They give one last look to Niall, to Caleb and Harry's friends, waving, laughing, and then they're out the door and into the dark Michigan night.

  
  
***

  
Apparently kissing Harry Styles, the guy he's been wanting ever since he saw him, the guy he wrote countless songs about, does something to Zayn's brain. Maybe all the blood went straight to his dick earlier, because it takes him a few minutes to actually process what's happening as they walk up and down the aisles of the closest Walmart. He's stone cold sober now, even drove them in his rented Porsche to the store, but Harry hadn't told him what they were looking for yet.  
  
He understands finally, once Harry has two massive packs of toilet paper in his arms, once he shoves a carton of eggs and two tubes of toothpaste into Zayn's hands. Harry's already briskly walking to the front of the store when Zayn puts it all together.  
  
"Hazza, we can't do this!" he whines, trying to keep up.  
  
"Shut up. We're fine. We're doing this," Harry says, face set, as he practically throws it at the clerk. He tosses a pack of gum, a bottle of water, and a pack of M &Ms onto the conveyor belt as well, for good measure.  
  
Rhonda, it seems, is not enthused, and just rolls her eyes as she rings them up. Harry, polite as ever, thanks her with a smile as he hands her his credit card.  
  
Zayn sees her recognize him, sees the pink in her cheeks, when she bags their purchase, finally smiling at them. He wonders briefly, as they walk out of the store, if she's taking a picture of their backs with her phone. He fucking hopes not. It'd be more evidence in his inevitable arrest.  
  
"Harry, we cannot do this," Zayn tries again, as Harry gets in the car and throws it all into the backseat.  
  
"Will you get a grip? Just drive," he motions, as Zayn finally puts the key in the ignition.  
  
He can't help but smile, knowing they're about to fuck with Tucker Mallory once and for all. He thinks of Jason again, wonders if Jason would've had the arm to throw toilet paper up and into a few trees, or if he would've thrown the eggs instead.  
  
"Fine, just tell me where he lives," he laughs.  
  
Harry turns up the radio, some country station that reminds Zayn of Nashville, and they smile as he drives them down the highway. Zayn lets the music play, enjoys Harry's company after all this time, can't stop smiling as he looks out the windows, to take in more of this shitty town, when he feels it. He practically jumps out of his skin, almost slams his foot on the brake, it jolts him so much.  
  
He looks down and sees Harry's left hand grabbing him, kneading him through his pants, holding him down. He sucks in a breath, his cock filling up under Harry's palm, as his hands tighten on the steering wheel.  
  
 _"Fuck,"_ he huffs out, eyes flicking up and down from the road in front of him, back to Harry's hand. He wants to see it, wants to watch, but he's nervous.  
  
But Harry pulls his hand back, right as Zayn's about to warn him, that he can't do this and drive, he'll fucking kill them both if even tries. He in equal measure misses Harry's touch, the heat of him, and is relieved that they're both still alive.  
  
He glances at Harry, to see him smiling, looking back out the side window. He's saying, _this isn't the only fun thing we'll be doing tonight, don't worry,_ Zayn knows then.  
  
Zayn adjusts himself in his pants, smiling as well.

  
  
***

  
"Okay, Zayn. We have to be tactical about this. Smart. Swift. Have you done this before?" Harry says, businesslike, turning to him in his seat, after they've parked up the hill from Tucker's house.  
  
Zayn looks at him like _really, dude?_ because of course he hasn't done this before. He never had friends to do this with, and he's a fucking adult now. Harry blushes slightly, looks like he's about to apologize, when Zayn reaches out and grabs his forearm.  
  
"You're the boss, H. Just tell me what to do," he says, nodding, psyching himself up for this.  
  
"Toilet paper first, then toothpaste, then eggs. Throw hard, throw fast. Once the roll falls back down, throw it again, as many times as you can. Let's really fuck the trees up. Then we write dumb shit on the driveway with the toothpaste, then we throw the eggs at the door. If we see anyone, if we hear any people catching us, we bail. Just fucking run, Zayn. Not to the car, but to a backyard."  
  
Zayn's eyes widen, really wondering what his publicist will say if she finds out he's been arrested, once she sees his mugshot. Harry senses it, his nervousness.  
  
"If we have to run, just follow me, okay?"  
  
"Fuck. _Fuck._ Okay," Zayn nods, steeling himself.  
  
If he's going to do this, be in high school again, he's going to do it right. He's going to be the kid to party with his peers, drink, almost get a hand job in his car, and TP the dickhead who made his life a living hell.  
  
He's doing this.  
  
"Just follow my lead. Tucker is either still at the bar getting cleaned up, or he's getting his nose looked at. Hopefully he won't be home just yet. But we don't have a lot of time. We want to enjoy this, and see him see it, if we can swing it. So just follow me. And take this shit off. We need full agility, full range of motion in our arms," he says, tugging at Zayn's blazer.  
  
Zayn laughs as they both throw their respective blazers into the backseat and grab their supplies. Right as Zayn's about to open his door and step out, Harry grabs him by the neck and pulls him in for a kiss. It's heated, harsher than the one at the bar, and Zayn almost drops the toothpaste into his lap, not really caring to do this anymore, if it means getting to stick his tongue further down Harry's throat.  
  
"I always admired you, you know," Harry pants, as they pull back. "Like, I knew your friend died and I knew you were quiet and kept to yourself. I knew you had it rough. I knew I could've made it easier, and I should've. But I admired how you did it, how you did it alone and never gave into it or let them ruin you. And that kiss before graduation was the best kiss I've ever had."  
  
"I admired you, too," Zayn pants back, looking him in the eye. "You shined so bright. You were the brightest thing there, the best one out of all of them. You were, and are, worth ten of them all. And that kiss propelled me into the rest of my life. It gave me the best fucking song I'll ever write."  
  
Harry briefly looks thrown off. There's an expression on his face, something Zayn can't place. But he wipes it off almost instantly, grasping Zayn's neck tighter for a moment, before letting go and hopping out of the car.  
  
Zayn scrambles out the door, fingers fumbling with the shit in his hands, as he tries to sneak off after Harry towards the little house on Buxton Street, the house Harry said Tucker rents with his cousin. He chants in his head, Harry's instructions, _throw hard, throw fast,_ and he fucking prays he makes it out of this in one piece, not in jail, preferably with Harry naked and underneath him at some point.  
  
Harry takes the tree on the right side of the yard, Zayn takes the tree on the left, two pretty large oaks Zayn's fairly certain are going to be a bitch to get toilet paper out of. But he forces the thought out of his head, and instead thinks of every shitty thing Tucker said to him and Jason over the years, every jab, every remark that made Zayn want to curl up in a ball in his room.  
  
He pictures Tucker's face with every throw, every arch of white toilet paper as it unspools in the air, as each roll falls to the ground. Zayn keeps laughing and Harry has to shush him every single time, his face full of concentration. Zayn wants to kiss him again so badly, he has to turn away and not look at Harry at all, all determination and strong shoulders.  
  
Zayn can't believe it, can't believe they got through all the toilet paper, can't believe no one's caught them. He runs through the floating paper strings hanging from the trees' limbs, as Harry grabs for him and hands him a tube of toothpaste.  
  
They draw a few dicks on the driveway, a few choice curse words for fun, before grabbing the eggs.  
  
"Once we do the eggs, that's it. We have to throw and get the fuck out of here," Harry whispers, handing him an egg quickly. "Go as fast as you can."  
  
"Got it," Zayn nods, taking it, their fingers brushing.  
  
Harry nods for him to go first, so Zayn pulls his arm back and chucks it at the front door, where it splats noisily against the silent night air. Zayn can't help but stare at it, as the yolk drips down the wooden door, transfixed that he's actually doing this. Harry gets impatient and elbows him again, as he throws the egg in his hand. Zayn shakes his head, grabs as many eggs in his hands as he can, before throwing them in fast succession at the front of Tucker's house, Harry chucking them next to him.  
  
A light comes on from the living room next door, they see it at the same time. Harry smacks at Zayn's shoulder, before they both book it back up the hill, before anyone looks out and sees them.  
  
When they make it back to the car, they collapse on their backs in the grass next to it, panting, laughing together. From this vantage point, they're away from the houses, tucked under the shadow of a tree, and can see down the hill for when Tucker arrives home. Zayn can't wait to see his face.  
  
"Holy shit," Zayn laughs, clutching his stomach.  
  
"I'm out of shape, shit," Harry laughs back, eyes closed.  
  
"Thanks for doing this, for letting me do this," Zayn says, face towards the sky, eyes closed now as well.  
  
"Thanks for my song," Harry whispers, grabbing his hand.  
  
They lay there like that, in the grass, next to Zayn's rented Porsche, holding hands for what feels like an eternity. Zayn commits it to memory, all of it.

  
  
***

  
Zayn senses the change in Harry's mood as they sit against the tree, as they pass the bottle of water back and forth, some time later after getting back to the car. Zayn keeps looking at Tucker's house at the bottom of the small hill, at the toilet paper swaying in the breeze, but he senses it, Harry tensing, pulling away slightly.  
  
"You good?" Zayn says, leaning into him.  
  
"Yeah," Harry says, looking down at his hands.  
  
Zayn lets him sit, lets him collect his thoughts like people have learned to do with him. Sometimes he has business meetings where he spends a good ten minutes sitting silently, as everyone around him let him get it together.  
  
But he leans further into Harry anyways, lets him know to say whatever he wants, whenever he can.  
  
"I don't want to be jealous anymore, Zayn," Harry finally says, on an exhale.  
  
Zayn just looks up at him.  
  
"I'm so jealous, all the time, Zayn. Of you. Of everyone. I can feel it eating away at me, day after day, this darkness, this jealousy that I can't shake. I'm so fucking mad," he says, voice shaking slightly.  
  
Zayn grabs his hand, still not saying anything, knowing Harry needs to get it out.  
  
"I'm mad at myself, you know?" he looks to Zayn now, willing him to get it, to understand. "I was the kid in high school who everyone said would do big things. I was supposed to go to college and find myself, find my passion, do great. Not good, but _great_. I was supposed to do it all, travel the world, write for magazines, interview famous people, something."  
  
"It's okay," Zayn whispers, holding him tighter.  
  
"No, it's not. I never did any of it. I got scared and let myself stay here, stay in my mom's basement because I can't commit to buying a house in this fucking town. I won't allow myself to settle here, Zayn. I can't. I don't need to be famous, or be on stage like you, honestly. I don't need that. I can shine without the recognition, I swear. I just need something else, you know? I don't want to be stuck in high school anymore."  
  
"I know."  
  
"I fucking hate it here," Harry sighs again, looking down.  
  
"Then leave. Go somewhere else," Zayn shrugs, hoping it helps.  
  
"Where?"  
  
"Anywhere."  
  
Harry leans against him, puts his head on Zayn's shoulder. Zayn reaches up and scratches at the hair by Harry's ear, tries to sooth him, assure him somehow. He kisses his head, lets himself smell his hair, really soaks it in, closes his eyes.  
  
A few minutes later, Harry startles.  
  
"Look," he hisses, sitting up, smacking at Zayn's thigh.  
  
It's like the few minutes before hadn't happened, as their adrenaline kicks back in, as they excitedly stand up to watch from the shadows.  
  
At the bottom of the hill, a truck slowly turns the corner to the block, heading to the house. They see it slow down as it gets to the driveway, parking with a screech right in front of it. Zayn giggles like a little girl, excited they didn't drive up into the toothpaste dicks, smacking at Harry now.  
  
Tucker and two other guys get out, guys from the bar, as they survey the scene. Zayn can see the bits of blood soaked rags shoved up Tucker's nostrils, Niall's handiwork, as Harry laughs into his neck. Tucker throws his arms up, yells at the house, clearly yelling at his cousin inside who didn't notice.  
  
A light comes on, as the door opens and a woman in a robe walks out, now yelling back at Tucker. The two guys get in between them, as Tucker and the girl point at the toilet paper, the egg on the door, yelling at each other. Tucker shoves one of the guys, as the guy shoves back. It looks like it might turn into an actual drunken fight, so Zayn looks to Harry's face, the gorgeous, happy face next to his.  
  
Harry grabs his hand, pulls him close, as they both quickly realize it's best to get away from the scene of the crime. They laugh as they get into the car, Harry throwing his arm out the window and flipping the bird as one last send off, Zayn hitting the gas as they fly away.

  
  
***

  
Zayn squeezes Harry's fingers as they drive, towards his hotel, as the wind whips their hair on the deserted highway, the highway Zayn still knows like the back of his hand. He can't wipe the smile off his face, the smile of someone who actually stuck up for himself, even if it was ten years too late. Even after everything that's happened, after the night they've had, he still can't actually believe it's reality. He's Zayn Malik, sure, the marginally famous singer with a whole life outside of this dump of a town, but he's also Zayn, the kid who walked into that gym tonight wanting people to like him after all this time.  
  
 _And_ he actually kissed Harry Styles again, sang for him, sang him his song, and he can't stop smiling.  
  
All he ever wanted was to belong, to feel good about the person he is when he's in a room full of people from that school. He showed it to them first as a dick, as someone who wanted to be the best and make them feel bad, and then he showed them as a bigger person, as a person who just wants to be included, a person who only wants to laugh along with them at a bar.  
  
He did it. He finally did it. He did it for him, and he did it for Jason, and he actually laughs then, thinking of it all.  
  
It's in the middle of that small laugh, in the middle of his victory, when he looks over at Harry and sees his sad frown. He's looking out his window. So Zayn squeezes his fingers harder, until Harry turns to him, excited smile back on his face.  
  
He tries to hide it, but Zayn sees. Zayn has always seen Harry. He can't help it.  
  
So he makes a snap decision in that moment, turning back to look ahead of them, at the highway, before turning the car around.

  
  
***

  
"What the fuck? What are we doing?" Harry whispers, as Zayn stops the car outside of the massive black gates.  
  
"I want to show you something," Zayn says simply, letting go of his hand as he steps out of the car.  
  
"But why are we here? We can't like, deface a cemetery, Zayn."  
  
Zayn rolls his eyes and very pointedly sighs at Harry, because, _really?_  
  
"Come on," Zayn says, ignoring him, walking to the fence connected to the gate. He surprises himself, the ease with which he can still climb over it after all these years, feet slipping slightly against the black iron. But he swings his legs over it and hops down into the grass on the other side.  
  
" _Oh fuck me,_ " Harry hisses, trying to lift himself over it, mumbling under his breath, quietly so Zayn can barely hear. "You TP _one_ house and suddenly he thinks you can sneak in anywhere, hop fences like a fucking crazy person."  
  
Harry grunts slightly, as he tries to get his gangly body up and over the fence. Zayn waits patiently, hands on his hips, as this giraffe on roller-skates maneuvers his limbs. He finally drops besides Zayn, right on his ass. Zayn rolls his eyes and laughs, taking off down the winding driveway of the cemetery he knows like the back of his hand, as well.  
  
"If we get arrested, I'm blaming you," Harry says quietly, looking around them, as he walks after Zayn down the lit up driveway. Zayn knew it would be lit up, knew the lamps would light their way, he used to come here so often at night.  
  
"If we get arrested, I'll blame the TP on you then, so shut up," Zayn says over his shoulder.  
  
He leads them down a ways, until he steps off into the grass to the right, winding his way around gravestones, careful not to walk over any. His dad told him it's the ultimate disrespect, to walk over a grave. Zayn's dad would know, his family having visited so many national cemeteries over the years, to see the graves of his grandfathers and their army brothers. Zayn remembers their first trip to Arlington like it was yesterday.  
  
Harry makes another noise of discomfort as they walk further from the lit up path. But Zayn isn't worried, he knows the light will reach the gravestone just right, the one he's searching for, the one he was going to visit before leaving for the airport tomorrow anyways.  
  
They finally get to it, Zayn stops, as Harry runs into his back at the abruptness of it. Zayn feels his body against his back, feels Harry's hands on his hips as he steadies himself, and Zayn smiles for a moment.  
  
Harry steps around him eventually and looks down at the stone Zayn can't tear his eyes away from.  
  
"Oh, Zayn. Shit. Sorry, I should've realized this is why we were here," he says quietly, rubbing at the back of his neck.  
  
Zayn finally looks up at Harry, forces himself to look away from Jason Emmanuel Garcia's name, to really look at him, to see him. Harry stays silent, not sure what to do, what to say.  
  
"Do you remember Jason? Do you remember how he died?" Zayn questions him simply.  
  
Harry rubs at his neck, looking back down at the grave.  
  
"Uh, I remember him a little? I remember the two of you hanging out. I used to… watch you sometimes. I saw your tattoos and your guitar over your shoulder. I remember Jason being with you," he says lamely, cheeks reddening, embarrassed.  
  
Zayn keeps staring at him.  
  
"And I remember he died junior year. He wasn't like, sick or anything. It was sudden. We had that memorial for him at school, that prayer service thing."  
  
"It was a heart defect. They didn't even know he had it until after he died. He died in his sleep, so at least he wasn't in pain," Zayn says, still quiet, looking at Harry.  
  
"I'm sorry," Harry says, chin wavering slightly.  
  
Zayn doesn't know if he's saying sorry for not knowing Jason better, for not remembering him much, or if he's simply sorry Zayn lost his friend. So Zayn just nods, before looking back down at the stone with the angel on it.  
  
"He was my best friend. My only friend."  
  
Harry can't speak yet.  
  
"He would've been the only person to sign my yearbook senior year. The only one," Zayn says, running his fingers across the top of the worn stone, the stone he's sure Jason's mom still lays flowers at every few weeks.  
  
Harry sniffs behind him, and Zayn knows not to look at him yet, to let him have a minute.  
  
"I didn't bring you here to make you feel bad, for not knowing him, or us, as kids. I don't want you to feel bad at all, Hazza. I brought you here so you can see what it means to be stuck in high school, for real."  
  
He turns to Harry, as Harry runs the back of his hand across his upper lip.  
  
"You can't stay stuck. You can't keep thinking about who you were then, or who you're not _now_ , comparing yourself to the kid you were at seventeen. I left this place and grew up because I had to, because Jason couldn't. Because the only people who can stay in high school are the ones who die there, Haz."  
  
Harry really does cry then, and Zayn feels it coming for him as well.  
  
"You have time to be whoever you want to be. You laid the groundwork here. You can do whatever you want. Go somewhere, go anywhere. You just have to do it," he finishes, staring.  
  
"I will," Harry sniffs again, nodding fast, reaching for him.  
  
Zayn pulls him close, pulls him into a tight hug, silently apologizing for the speech he just gave. It's definitely what Harry needed to hear, but it was hard, he knows. But Zayn breathes into his neck, because he's dramatic and an artist and a songwriter, and it's the only way he knew he could express himself.  
  
He also selfishly wanted the excuse to see Jason again, sort of, to show Harry off a little. Jason was the first person to alert him to his crush in the first place, after he caught Zayn staring at Harry that first time. Maybe if he could see him now, he'd be proud.  
  
As they pull apart and begin to walk back to the lit up driveway, Zayn looks over his shoulder at the gravestone, and smiles. Because if Jason were here, he'd probably be rolling his eyes, telling Zayn off with just his face, for being so sentimental and stupid. So Zayn rolls his eyes as he turns back to Harry.  
  
Harry pretends not to hear it, the hushed whisper, his voice wet, as Zayn grabs his hand.  
  
"Miss you, J."

  
  
***

  
Zayn briefly thought about pulling Harry into the shower with him, before he realized they both needed a minute to calm down. He stands under the hot spray of water in his hotel bathroom, his arms out in front of him holding him up, as the room steams around him.  
  
He hopes their little trip to the cemetery didn't freak Harry out. They are still, after all, near strangers. They've been friends, or whatever they are, for a few hours at most.  
  
But Zayn thinks it's only fair. If Harry Styles could help him to get over himself and the idea of unworthiness, could help him move on from high school bullshit, to see himself as a member of the group, then it's only fair to return the favor. If he has to be the one to remind Harry that he shines, that he can be whoever he wants, he'll take him to see Jason in the morning, and the next day, and the next, or however long it takes for him to get it.  
  
He also hopes, that whatever happens tonight, is enough to tide them over, to give them each what they need, before they have to separate and leave each other again the next day. It's like graduation night all over again, which makes Zayn frown.  
  
He makes his way back into the main room in his towel, to see Harry sitting on the king bed, his phone in his hands. He looks up at Zayn as he walks around to his suitcase, and he knows Harry is looking at the tattoos now completely covering both of his arms, the ones on his chest, the ones curled around his back and torso. He only had a few small ones on his arms when they were in school, when he could sneak a few towns over with Jason, and then without Jason, to get cheap ones on the fly.  
  
Harry crowds behind him as he gets a pair of track pants from his bag, feels Harry's breath against his neck, his fingers running up and down his forearms.  
  
"Thanks for everything. Thanks for all of it," he says quietly, lips against Zayn's shoulder.  
  
"Thanks for showing me how to TP. You're quite the master," Zayn smiles, hoping they can move past all the shit they've talked about tonight, can move onto the next fun adventure.  
  
They stand together, Harry against Zayn's back, for a few seconds, as they let it settle, the energy from before.  
  
"I always loved your tattoos. I watched you back then, to see when you got new ones, you little rebel," Harry whispers with a smile into his ear, fingers ghosting up to his biceps now.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Look," he says, pulling back from Zayn's body. Zayn turns around, confused, as Harry strips off his shirt and stands in front of him, eyes dark.  
  
Zayn takes it in, the ink littering Harry's body, the random spots of ink along his arms, the birds on his chest, the fucking butterfly over his stomach. He sees the letters, the numbers near his shoulders, the ship on his arm. He's never been able to appreciate Harry Styles like this, even though he's imagined it about a million times over the years. He used to jerk off to the thought of Harry on his knees for him, still does sometimes, if he's honest. He looks at each tattoo and he wants to taste every single one of them, as the semi under his towel becomes more and more of a problem.  
  
His eyes must give it away, because Harry turns and walks towards the bathroom, continues eyeing Zayn over his shoulder, smiling like the menace he is. Zayn's tempted to follow him, take a second fucking shower if he has to, but Harry shakes his head, cackling.  
  
"See you in a few, babe," he singsongs, shutting the bathroom door.  
  
The click of the door is what sends Zayn into a spiral, as he frantically turns back to his bag to get condoms and lube, supplies he almost didn't pack, not anticipating this with anyone, let alone Harry Styles. But he honestly folds his hands and looks up, sends a silent prayer to whatever god is up there, thanks Jason for being Jason, for looking out for him, for granting him this amazing foresight. He tosses them into the drawer of the bedside table, right there next to the Bible, ironically.  
  
Zayn spends a lot of time in hotels, has for years now, so he quickly gets rid of the disgusting top comforter and throws it in the corner. He pulls back the sheets, before shutting all the lights off except for the small lamp next to the alarm clock.  
  
He throws his wet towel to the corner as well and settles under the sheets, heart beating a million miles an hour. Now that he's there, waiting, he nervously grabs his phone and looks through his emails, fingers winding through the hair on his chin. His manager wants him back in LA as soon as possible, so she reminds him not to miss his flight in the morning. He has a session the next night with two producers he's been wanting to work with for a while, he almost forgot.  
  
"Well, well, well," he hears, as his head snaps up, to see a wet Harry walking out of the bathroom, in a towel of his own.  
  
Zayn can feel his cheeks heat up, as he sees Harry taking in the sights, the bed ready for him, Zayn's towel in the corner.  
  
"Look at you, all ready and waiting. You dirty bird," Harry says, crossing his arms, surveying him from the end of the bed.  
  
Zayn shakes his head and tosses his phone back to the table. He reminds himself this isn't ten years ago, this isn't the two of them on a porch, Zayn the underdog kissing Harry, the hottest guy in their class. He's Zayn fucking Malik, damn it.  
  
So he doesn't even speak. He just snaps his fingers and points at the bed, eyes on Harry, fierce, set.  
  
Harry blinks a few times, as he realizes he does not have the upper hand here, not anymore, not ever again. He might be Harry Styles, but his yellow Chucks are gone now, and this is Zayn's room.  
  
But Harry is still Harry, so he slowly unwraps the towel and tosses it towards Zayn's. He watches Zayn, tilts his head slightly, as Zayn rakes his eyes up and down his body. He sees the tattoos along his hips, the one on his thigh. Harry knows Zayn won't ask twice, won't point to the bed again, so he climbs up onto it, this massive bed, and slowly crawls towards him.  
  
Zayn's breath catches in his throat as Harry makes his way to him, on his hands and knees, skin still damp from the shower, hair in his eyes. Zayn wants to fucking ruin him. Harry gets closer, tugs the sheets down so he can crawl up Zayn's body unobstructed, eyes moving up Zayn's thighs, to his cock, his hips, his chest, before looking him in the eye again.  
  
Harry keeps crawling before he settles on him, thighs on either side of Zayn, follows the one continuous motion as Zayn lays down and Harry drapes over him, hands in his hair, kissing him again. Zayn reaches up and moves his wet hair away from his forehead, pulls on it slightly, as Harry opens his mouth further. It's hot, the water on Harry's body practically steaming off him now, as they tangle, as they move together.  
  
Harry shifts just right and their cocks slot together deliciously, hot and hard, skin catching on skin, as they both grunt and hold on tighter. Zayn feels like he's going to have a fucking stroke, so he pushes against Harry to flip them over.  
  
He looks down at Harry Styles, the best he never had, before leaning down to kiss along his jaw, his neck, his chest. Harry's puffy nipples are already hard for him, waiting, so Zayn doesn't tease him, just takes each of them into his mouth and sucks, licks at them, as Harry arches his back, arches into him.  
  
"You're so fucking gorgeous," Zayn says into his skin, as he sucks his way down his chest, tasting his skin.  
  
"I've wanted this for so fucking long, I swear to god," Harry whines, hips moving up, as Zayn scratches his nails down his torso, as he settles between his legs.  
  
"You're gonna watch me, don't close your eyes," Zayn smiles into his thigh, still giddy over the fact that during all those years of watching Harry, Harry was watching him right back and neither knew what to do about it.  
  
"Okay," Harry whines again, right as Zayn licks a stripe up his cut dick.  
  
Harry almost throws his head back, Zayn can tell, can tell he wants to move his hips, close his eyes, angle his face up. But he doesn't, he does as he's told and shoves a pillow behind his head so he can look down at Zayn.  
  
Zayn's good at this, he knows, so he moves his hand across Harry's balls, as he licks up his cock again, before sucking the head into his mouth and hollowing his cheeks. Harry grabs at the sheets, already a mess over it, his breath erratic and harsh. Zayn gives him a look, a fierce look he hopes Harry can read with a dick in his mouth, half of his facial expression gone, and luckily he does. Because he scrambles to get his hands on Zayn, one on his shoulder, one in his hair, pulling at him.  
  
Zayn almost groans into it, once he feels Harry's fingers in his hair, holding on for dear life. He needs it, the performance review while he does this, the positive reinforcement. Harry pulls his legs up, as he tenses, as Zayn works his way down his cock, inch by inch, and he can't stop the sounds coming out of his mouth now.  
  
"Holy shit," he whines, voice high in his throat, as Zayn swallows around him, throat fluttering.  
  
Zayn goes faster, moves his hand down further, teases Harry with his finger, as Harry cries out again. Zayn sincerely hopes everyone on the hotel floor can hear Harry, can hear how needy he is.  
  
"I'm gonna come, Zayn. Stop. Stop," Harry grunts, as his hips snap up, like he can't help it.  
  
But Zayn almost laughs onto Harry's dick, honestly almost chuckles, if Harry thinks he's only going to be coming once tonight. So he sucks harder, narrows his eyes at Harry, willing him to go on. Harry stares at him and exhales sharply, getting it. So he moves his hips more, grabs Zayn's head harder, pulls his hair until Zayn whines onto him in pain.  
  
That's what does it for Harry Styles apparently, that slight pain, that whine from Zayn, because not even three seconds later, he's coming down Zayn's throat, with one long grunt. He shakes through it, as Zayn sucks him down, swallowing around him.  
  
Zayn doesn't want him to feel too sensitive, get too spent just yet, so he lets him slip out of his mouth, and sits up onto his knees. He has to catch his breath. He wipes at his mouth and chin with the back of his hand, looking down at Harry, who now has his eyes closed, face scrunched up like he's in pain. Zayn's cock aches, needs to be touched, so Zayn reaches down and strokes himself as he looks at Harry. He spreads the precome down, moves his hand, grips himself the way he likes.  
  
Harry lays there for a few more seconds, gets his wits about him again, hands in his own hair now. He slowly opens his eyes and looks up at Zayn, watches him stroke himself right above his butterflied chest.  
  
"S'at good, Hazza?" Zayn says, low, staring at him, hand moving up and down his cock.  
  
Harry watches his hand move and nods wordlessly.  
  
"What you gonna do for me?"  
  
"Anything," Harry whispers, nodding, eyes still on Zayn's hand.  
  
"Tell me what you want, tell me what you're gonna do."  
  
"I want you to fuck me, Zayn. I want it. I want to be good for you," Harry says back, eyes slowly moving up to Zayn's face.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"I'm gonna take it, I'm gonna take whatever you want."  
  
"Yeah?" Zayn grunts out, getting antsy now.  
  
Zayn's eyes are completely blown out and he wants nothing more than to fuck Harry Styles, right now, right this second. So he looks at Harry and gestures to the drawer, the stuff he brought. Harry gets it, reaches out for it, reaches in and grabs a condom and the bottle of lube.  
  
Harry looks up at him, questioning him, eyes open.  
  
"Go on, show me how you do it. Get yourself ready for me, Hazza," Zayn says as his hand moves up his shaft, still working himself with his right hand.  
  
Harry nods, before he shifts slightly, moving his leg for Zayn to lift his, so Harry can open his legs wider, with Zayn still kneeling between them. He's still right over Harry, still in charge, still waiting. So Harry drizzles lube onto his fingers and looks back up to Zayn's face as he reaches down, index finger circling his entrance.  
  
He slowly pushes the first finger in, gasps slightly as his body tenses up. Zayn just looks down at him, watches his hand move, as he continues stroking himself.  
  
"You gonna stretch for me?"  
  
"Yeah," Harry says in a whisper, working his finger in further.  
  
Harry moves his hand, curls his finger slightly, and Zayn sees Harry's entire body react.  
  
"Add a second finger."  
  
Harry does as he's told and adds his middle finger, face wincing slightly. Zayn sees his cock has filled up again, is completely hard against his stomach, and he feels his own cock jump slightly in his hand. He's too worked up, he needs it soon.  
  
"Are you gonna come from just your fingers, Haz? You gonna come again?"  
  
"N-no, not yet," Harry sputters out, as he scissors his fingers, pumps them a few times.  
  
"You sure about that?" Zayn says, reaching for him, grabbing Harry's cock with his left hand. It's a little awkward to do left handed, but Harry doesn't complain. His back arches at the sensation, at the sensitivity, and he hisses slightly. His eyes have slid shut, which Zayn told him not to do, but he lets him have a minute. Poor Harry, this must be a lot to handle.  
  
"Fuck," Harry whines, fingers moving faster, Zayn's hand gripping him tighter.  
  
Harry makes a sound, this sound that seems to start in his stomach, works its way up his chest and out of his mouth, this deep sound as he curls his fingers inside himself, as his cock jumps in Zayn's awkward left hand, and that's it. That's all Zayn can do. That's it.  
  
"I want to fuck you, can I fuck you? Are you ready?" Zayn whines now, all pretense of intense and in-control Zayn gone out the window. He's just as needy now, just as desperate, his voice going high in his throat now, too.  
  
Harry seems relieved that the harsh tone in Zayn's voice is gone, as he deflates slightly, a loose smile on his face, as they both get too desperate for games, for teasing.  
  
"Yeah, yeah. Come on," Harry says fast, breath rushed now, already sounding fucked out of his mind.  
  
Zayn feels completely erratic now, his eyes must look wild, he must look like a wild animal caught in a trap. Harry still can't open his eyes, which Zayn is grateful for, as he grabs for the condom with numb hands. He bites it open and tries to roll it on as fast as he can, but his hands are shaking. It's too hot, they're too out of it now.  
  
It's as he's lubing himself up, as he's slicking himself that Harry makes another delicious sound, as he continues working his fingers in himself, like he can't stop. Zayn has to physically reach out and tug at his hand, as Harry finally opens his eyes and focuses on Zayn's face. He seems just as crazy, just as lost, a sheen of sweat glistening on his chest.  
  
"Together, we're doing this together," Zayn reminds him, after the minutes they spent touching themselves.  
  
"Yeah," Harry nods, angling his face up, needing him.  
  
Zayn leans down and kisses him, breathes into his mouth. He throws every emotion he has into it, the desperation, the lust, the affection. He needs it, they need it, but they need each other more.  
  
"I got you, Hazza. _Fuck,_ " he groans into Harry's neck, as he slips into him.  
  
Harry grips his shoulders, nails digging into his skin, as he sighs. His entire body relaxes, like he's been waiting for this moment all night, maybe for ten years, Zayn wonders. He can't help but grin slightly, at the fact that they're doing this. If he's being honest, he feels like this needs a soundtrack, a song to accompany them. He's not vain enough to say a song of his own, but he's been told his songs with a touch of R&B to them are great songs to fuck to. But he shakes his head, smiling again.  
  
Zayn feels their chests heaving together, their bodies moving together in a rhythm Zayn didn't know he had, a back and forth, a push and pull, and it's like nothing he's ever felt. There's something there, it's right there.  
  
"You feel that?" he whispers to Harry in amazement, hoping he understands, understands something he can't even put into words. He doesn't understand it himself.  
  
"Yeah, I feel it," Harry huffs into his ear, as he grips him tighter.  
  
And maybe Harry's just saying that, maybe he doesn't understand either, but Zayn senses he's telling the truth.  
  
They both feel it, the energy around them, something their bodies have created together.  
  
He pulls back to look down at Harry, as Harry looks up at him, as he speeds up. He shifts his knees out to get a better angle, and slams up into Harry as hard as he can, as Harry keens into him, like the breath has been punched out of him.  
  
Zayn reaches for him, wants Harry to come again, wants to see it this time, so he throws everything he has into it. He works his hand on Harry's cock, thumbs the slit as his hips falter slightly, as he feels his own orgasm building in his gut. He's not going to last much longer.  
  
Harry must read his mind, because it's about then that Harry bears down and clenches, eyes on Zayn's face, determined.  
  
Zayn grips his hip in his left hand and looks back at him, as he grunts one final time, a hard push, coming like he'll never stop, fucking up into Harry, fucking through it, grunting, a bead of sweat dripping down his spine.  
  
That must do it, because Harry cries out one final time, as his head falls back, as his chest seizes up, and he's coming in Zayn's hand. He comes a second time, weakly now, just a few strings of come, before his entire body goes limp. He shakes his head back and forth, it's too much, too much stimulation now, all over. So Zayn quickly lets his cock go, before slipping out of him, as Harry winces.  
  
It was too much, too much all at once.  
  
Zayn quickly gets rid of the condom, tying it off, tossing it away, before laying over Harry, grabbing his head, shushing him in his ear.  
  
"Oh Hazza, you okay? Are you good?" he whispers.  
  
"Yeah, yeah. I'm okay," Harry says, quietly, shaking slightly.  
  
"I got you, I got you," Zayn kisses his neck, his ear.  
  
They lay like that for a few minutes, as Harry comes back, comes back down. Zayn eventually leans back and cleans Harry up so Harry doesn't have to move. He wipes at his chest with one of their damp towels, lightly runs it down the backs of his legs, and over his ass, as Harry shakes his head again. Zayn has to shush him again, soothe him again.  
  
Zayn knows right away that Harry Styles, once spent, can't cuddle for long or have any in depth pillow talk. Harry's eyes are already closing, his blinks becoming longer and longer, as Zayn runs his hand along his cheek.  
  
"I got you, Hazza," he whispers, as Harry moves closer to him, moves his face to Zayn's chest.  
  
"What are we gonna do, Zayn?" Harry says quietly, against Zayn's skin.  
  
Zayn isn't sure what to say, wondering that himself. So he says what he said ten years ago on Sara Irving's porch, says what Harry needed to hear then, and what Harry needs to hear now.  
  
"We'll be okay. We'll be fine."

  
  
***

  
Zayn Malik planned on walking into his ten year high school reunion as a new and improved person, as the marginally famous singer/songwriter with a hit from a few years ago, a hit that numerous fans have tattooed lyrics from. He planned on walking in as a successful artist, on his way back to LA soon to write for his next album, the album he fully plans on winning a Grammy for.  
  
He thought it was stupid. He thought the whole thing was childish. He openly admitted to himself that he only wanted to go to show people up, to look better. And for all intents and purposes, he accomplished what he set out to do.  
  
He walked around the stage he was afraid of for so long, he got to speak in front of his peers, got to mention Jason in his little speech. He saw Jason's grave again, saw the town he escaped, gave a big fuck you to Tucker Mallory.  
  
Zayn also got Harry Styles, for one amazing night.  
  
He got to sing Harry his song, after all those years, the song he was always meant to hear.  
  
Something else he got, he realized once he was in the airport and reached for his wallet to grab his ID, were a few words for his yearbook, written on a piece of hotel paper, finally, after ten years of waiting.  
  
 _Zayn,_  
 _I know we didn't know each other very well during our four years of high school, but I hope we can keep in touch._  
 _Be well._  
 _Do great._  
 _H_  
  
Zayn rolled his eyes at that, at how dumb Harry Styles can be, how much of a dork he really is. He tucked that piece of paper back into his wallet, and smiled. Because Harry was speaking to himself as much as he was speaking to Zayn.  
  
Just because it's ten years too late, doesn't mean you can't find what you're looking for.  
 

 


	3. Epilogue

The press line is out of control, which doesn't surprise Jen Burton in the slightest. It's hit that time of the evening when the photographers, the ones from the trades and Getty Images, start getting riled, the ones in front getting ballsier and ballsier for shots, while the ones in the back stop trying to reach any higher. It's no use.  
  
Jen motions for her camera guy to follow her so the cord to her mic doesn't pop off like it did at last year's Grammys, when she lost half her audio, and almost lost her job. Micah laughs as he trudges after her, because he remembers.  
  
"Alright, just a few more people coming down the line, I think," she says, smoothing her dress out again with one hand, the dress with the black slit in the leg her senior producer told her the male singers would enjoy, grasping her notebook in the other hand. It's all kind of gross, playing it up like this with her dress, but whatever. She needs a few sound bites for the morning show.  
  
Just then, Zayn Malik comes into view, as he makes his way down the press line, first in the pit, where the hoards of photographers yell at him.  
  
"Left, left, left! To your left, Zayn!"  
  
"Right, Zayn! To your right, please!"  
  
Jen smoothes her dress even more, excited to finally talk to Zayn Malik. He wasn't here last year, wasn't nominated, so she can't wait to be up close to that face. He's let his facial hair get a little longer, let it grow in some, let it match the long hair curling slightly near his ears. He also doesn't do many press interviews, doesn't venture to many events or parties in town, so this is Jen's first time interviewing him. She hopes she's not sweating.  
  
A woman tugs on Zayn's arm, tugs on the black Armani suit he's wearing, directing him to the line of journalists. Jen notices ET and Access Hollywood get him first, as she rolls her eyes, wishing their line position could've been better this year. But no matter, she's good at her job, she'll get something.  
  
He finally makes his way to her, his publicist and her clipboard directing him over.  
  
"Hello, you have Zayn Malik, nominated for Song of the Year. Three minutes," she announces to Jen politely, announces Zayn as if Jen doesn't know who he is, as Zayn situates himself in front of her, hands clasped in front of him. He gives a polite smile to Micah through the lens, and then to Jen. She blushes slightly, nervous, which is ridiculous.  
  
"Zayn Malik, congratulations on your nomination tonight. How excited are you?" she says, bubbly, sticking the mic out to him, so the camera can see their logo.  
  
"Thank you, thank you very much," he smiles, looking her in the eye like a total pro, smile creeping on his face. "I couldn't believe it, to be honest. I worked really hard on this album, and my dream was to be here tonight, to be nominated. So for it to actually happen, was amazing. Wicked."  
  
He nods again, smiling at her.  
  
"Is it true you wrote this song, 'Throw Hard, Throw Fast,' in just under an hour?" she asks sweetly, already knowing the answer.  
  
"Yes, that is true," he nods politely, having answered this probably a thousand times since the nominations were announced. "I had spent some time with a few friends back home, a few people I hadn't seen in a very long time. And it all just sort of came to me on the plane back to LA."  
  
"Can you tell us why you titled the album _Seventeen?_ " she asks, already knowing the answer.  
  
"Well, the title kind of comes from that frame of mind, I guess. It's an age I struggled with, an age I think a lot of people struggle with. But it's also an age you learn a lot about yourself. I certainly did. I learned a lot then, and it formed me into who I am today. Many of my songs were written with that time in my life in mind, so yeah."  
  
He smiles at Jen again, turns to the camera slightly so Micah can pick it up. Jen knows she's running out of time. So she has to ask.  
  
"I have to ask you, Zayn… Are you single? There were a few rumors about you lately, about a certain someone seen with you recently," she says with a smile and a wink.  
  
Zayn smiles back, nodding slightly. He must be used to this question, as well.  
  
"You know, I don't talk too much about that, about my personal life and relationships. I sort of let what I sing about speak for itself," he says, giving her an apologetic look, before smiling again. "But I will say, I am very happy these days. Can't complain."  
  
"You certainly seem happy," she winks, right as another person comes up and tugs on Zayn's arm.  
  
It's the guy he's been seen with since last year, the few times paps have caught Zayn Malik in LA and New York, coming and going from office buildings and meetings. The guy always has a laptop in his arms, a notebook in his hands, and he clearly works for Zayn or with Zayn's publicity team.  
  
But Jen's not stupid, and neither are her colleagues in the business, because every single photo of the two of them could go into a fucking magazine spread with an _Are They Or Aren't They?_ headline, with the _Are They!_ heavily implied. The way they look at each other is so loving, so affectionate, Jen would bet her entire salary on their inevitable engagement.  
  
"I have someone from Rolling Stone for you," the guy says behind Zayn, holding his bicep, a smile on his face. He's wearing a sleek black suit and has an iPad in his hand.  
  
Zayn's publicist gives Jen a quick thank you, ending the interview, right as Zayn himself turns to her and says thank you as well. He kisses her on the cheek and moves away, head bent towards the guy, the guy the press still doesn't know the name of, as they walk away from the press line towards the line leading into the venue.  
  
Jen takes comfort in that, her being the last person to get an interview with Zayn tonight, so she turns to Micah and is about to pack it in, when she sees him shake his head frantically.  
  
He doesn't look at her yet, doesn't turn his camera off, because he's busy zooming in on Zayn Malik and the guy walking away.  
  
The guy leans in and whispers in Zayn's ear, as Zayn smiles ear to ear.  
  
They link pinkies for a few seconds, a small touch, but a touch Micah mercifully captures. Jen almost leaps into the air, knowing it'll be one of the lead stories tomorrow, whether Zayn Malik wins a Grammy or not, the fact that he's totally together with a guy from his PR team.  
  
Before Jen closes her notebook, she scribbles it down to remind herself, _find out mystery guy's name ASAP._  
  
She looks up to see Zayn smiling again, looking at this gorgeous guy, as he trips over his feet.  
 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this. I sure did! Thank you to cheshord.tumblr.com for the idea!
> 
> :)
> 
> [Twitter](http://twitter.com/this_onegoes/)   
>  [Tumblr](http://this-onegoes.tumblr.com/)


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